Going to the beach, there’s just something awesome about it. I grew up going to The Cape and Martha’s Vineyard, so I know a good beach when I see one. I’m always amazed when people in Los Angeles talk about how wonderful the beaches are there, when if memory serves, it’s a big flat beach with a dirty ocean on one side, and a sea of paved parking lot on the other – and on the far side of that parking lot: a highway. It’s not Aquinnah, that’s for damn sure.

If I’m not in the lab, and the weather is right, there are few better places to be than out there on the warm sand, with a book in my hand, soaking up the rays. It’s the antidote to regular life, unless of course you’re fortunate enough to spend you life out on the beach. Who gets to spend their life chilling on a beach? These lucky bastards: retired billionaires, lifeguards, trust fund kids, bikini models. In fact, I believe the esteemed philosopher Kate Upton said it best:

Listen: I like my bikinis very small, and I also like, uh, nude-colored bikinis because people double-take – they think I’m naked on the beach.

It doesn’t apply to me of course, but I empirically agree with her logic there, as I’m sure you will too:

It’s not nude, but it is on the small side, so it all works. She’s a looker, that’s for sure.

It’s of course January now, and I don’t see myself crossing paths with a beach for at least three months – unless there’s a surprise conference down in Jamaica that I need to speak at. Stranger things have happened, and if this winter proves to be anything like last winter, you can bet I’ll be wishing for the plane ticket, the mai tai and a great book.

See ya on the sand.